


as long as i'm here, no one can hurt you

by emryses



Series: when the party's over verse [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bipolar Disorder, Canonical Character Death, Episode Remix, Episode: s07e12 Requiem For a Slut, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Relationship Discussions, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emryses/pseuds/emryses
Summary: “Me and Monica are complicated. Maybe it’s best if we just don’t mention her.”And even though Ian had been King of Having Conversations for the past couple months, and even though Mickey felt in his stomach that they really should talk this out, he nods. Because he really hated fighting with Ian, and Ian hated fighting with him. They were always better when they didn’t have a looming threat over them. And, hey, Monica wasn’t around, so how dangerous could she really be, right?
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Monica Gallagher, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: when the party's over verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571407
Comments: 10
Kudos: 182





	as long as i'm here, no one can hurt you

**Author's Note:**

> side-story to when the party's over, so it would be beneficial for you to read that first.
> 
> trigger warnings: this story deals with monica's canonical death as if ian and mickey were together. so discussions of death, mental illness (bipolar disorder), and other general shameless warnings. 
> 
> also, just as a note of explanation - this story picks up not long after wtpo ended, but in the middle has a year-ish time-jump, just due to the canon timeline.
> 
> i'm sticking with my billie eilish song title theme - this one is from her new single "everything i wanted"

Mickey learned pretty quickly that the nickname, Hurricane Monica, is not an exaggeration. The woman has the uncanny ability to arrive, and within a week, fuck absolutely everything up.

Mickey knows Ian’s relationship with his mother is complicated. He knows that Ian feels attached to her way more than any of his other siblings. What he doesn’t understand is why, but he’s also learned pretty quickly not to test Ian on it, or else be burned.

It was a few weeks after he and Ian had settled back together, the two of them crashing at Mickey’s apartment above the Alibi for the night. Ian’s phone started to ring at about five in the morning, Mickey grumbled and had rolled around, Ian shushing him and reaching to answer it.

Mickey drifted in and out of sleep, eventually rolling over and noticing that Ian wasn’t in the bed, and it was around 5:30 in the morning. Groaning again, he sat up and noticed that the door to his apartment was slightly ajar, the stairway light on.

Mickey stepped out of bed, tip-toeing over to the door, and hearing Ian talking quietly, sitting on the top step. He was obviously on his phone.

“I’m doing good ... Mickey? Yeah, we are,” Ian was saying. Mickey could see him through the sliver of the door, his back was to Mickey’s, but he could still see the arm Ian had wrapped around himself like protection, his other hand holding his phone up close to his ear.

“He does, Mom, he does understand.”

Mickey froze. What the fuck was Ian doing talking to his fucking mother right now? 

“Thanks,” Ian whispered, his free hand coming up to rub at his face, “Where are you right now? Are you safe?”

Something bitter filled Mickey’s stomach, listening to Ian talk to his mother like that, asking if she was okay like she even fucking deserved it. The bitch had a lot of fucking balls, didn’t she?

“I’m sorry about that,” Ian whispered.

Mickey couldn’t stand there and listen to this conversation anymore, especially one he was pretty sure Ian wouldn’t want him to hear. He managed to tear himself away from the door, going over and sitting back on the bed. He could hear the muffled sounds of Ian talking, but managed to not eavesdrop anymore.

He had to trust Ian, he reminded himself, or else this wouldn’t fucking work. One phone call with his fucked up mom didn’t mean he was going to run off with her again.

That didn’t mean that Mickey wasn’t listening out for any sounds of Ian heading down the steps, though.

Around six in the morning, Ian entered Mickey’s apartment again, Mickey sitting on the bed facing the doorway.

“Who was that?” Mickey asked.

Ian paused, and Mickey could fucking see him trying to make a decision on his face like he was trying to decide whether or not he was really going to lie to Mickey right now. It made Mickey’s fucking blood boil.

“Don’t bother answering,” he said, “I already fucking know.”

Ian let out a breath and moved in closer to Mickey, “It was my mom.”

“I said I already fucking knew.”

“Do you want me to be honest or not?” Ian spat.

“Were you gonna be honest, or were you only telling me the truth because I figured it out?” 

Ian glared at him. The sun had already started to rise through the window, and Mickey could see Ian’s growing red, a vein forming in the side of his neck. The telltale sign that Ian Gallagher was pissed. 

But he also didn’t answer Mickey’s question.

“What the fuck are you doing talking to her?” Mickey asked.

“She’s my mom,” Ian returned, “And she called me.”

“She’s also Lip and Fiona’s mom, but I’m pretty sure none of them would answer a phone call from her at five in the fuckin’ morning.”

“She’s sick, Mickey.”

“She also fucking abandoned you.”

“She’s me, Mickey!” Ian roared and took a step away from Mickey.

That stopped Mickey in his tracks, his anger settling momentarily. But it didn’t stop Ian, apparently, who started walking around Mickey’s apartment, finding his pants and other miscellaneous clothing that had been thrown off last night.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Mickey asked.

“Gotta work,” Ian said passively, pulling on his jeans.

Mickey had let out a sigh and tried to keep himself calm. He knew what this was, it’s Ian Gallagher Coping Mechanism 101: ignore and bolt. “It’s six in the fucking morning, you don’t work until eight.”

“Wanna get my run in,” Ian said as he slipped on his shoes.

“Look, you don’t gotta go, okay?”

“No, actually, I do,” Ian retorted, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand this.”

“Expect me to understand what? Having shitty parents?”

“Loving your shitty parent,” Ian spat back, before thinking better of it.

The two of them had paused, standing in Mickey’s tiny-ass apartment as the morning light had started to come in, and Mickey had nodded, muttering, “Yeah, okay, asshole, just fucking go then” and Ian replied, “I fucking will” and the door slamming behind him.

* * *

The decent thing about this fight was that by the end of the day they both equally felt like shit, so when Ian showed up the Alibi after his shift, Mickey had just waved him upstairs until he could leave for ten minutes to go see him.

Ian was on him the second Mickey walked through the door, pulling Mickey into a hard hug, and burying his face against Mickey’s neck.

“Woah, okay, okay,” Mickey said, steadying himself against the doorframe. 

“I’m sorry,” Ian mumbled into his shoulder, “I didn’t mean it.”

Mickey ran a comforting hand up Ian’s back, “Didn’t mean what?”

“That you don’t - that you didn’t love your parents, or - or that you _should_ love Terry because there is definitely a difference between a bipolar mom and a neo-nazi homophobic piece of -” 

“Ian,” Mickey said gently, pulling out of his rant, “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too, I shouldn’t’ve attacked you about it like that.”

Ian pulled back, rubbing a hand over his face, “I probably would have lied,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

Ian shifted his feet, “Cuz you would have gotten mad.”

“I fucking got mad anyway.”

“Yeah, I really can’t win here, can I?” Ian joked, Mickey rolling his eyes in response.

“Listen, Monica is the only parent I have, okay?” Ian said, his hand coming to grip onto Mickey’s, “I gave up on Frank a long fucking time ago, way before I found out I’m not even his kid. Monica is the only thing I’ve got, and I am what I am right now because of her.”

Mickey really didn’t like that, “No, you ain’t,” he said

“We have the same disease,” Ian countered.

“So do about 5 million other fucking people!” 

“Can we just - can we not?” Ian had asked, semi-hysterically, he dropped Mickey’s hand and held up his in surrender, “Me and Monica are complicated. Maybe it’s best if we just don’t mention her.”

And even though Ian had been King of Having Conversations for the past couple months, and even though Mickey felt in his stomach that they really should talk this out, he nods. Because he really hated fighting with Ian, and Ian hated fighting with him. They were always better when they didn’t have a looming threat over them. And, hey, Monica wasn’t around, so how dangerous could she really be, right?

So they don’t talk about her. Somehow, they don’t talk about her for nearly a full year and a half before she shows up again. 

But then, they still don’t talk about it. They don’t talk about it when she shows up at the Gallagher’s doorstep, intent on coming back and making amends. They don’t talk about it when Ian insists they go to a bar with her, insists that Mickey actually meets her, and instead, Ian gets in a fight with her, and Mickey ends up following Ian back to the Gallagher’s house, storming into the kitchen with a “Fucking Monica.”

And they don’t talk about it, they don’t talk about her, or about how Ian is seemingly the only Gallagher to care whether or not she’s doing well, or if she’s on medication. About how Ian still hates her while he loves her, wants her safe, but doesn’t want her near. About how when Monica comes up in conversation or comes around, all the bullshit the two of them have been spewing about communication and being honest, and all that shit, just fucking disappears. 

They just don’t fucking talk about any of it.

* * *

Monica dies on a Sunday. Mickey figures it’s the only gift from anything that exists higher up he’ll ever get. But Ian, fuck, Ian goes cold. 

They’re at Mickey’s when they find out, trying to get this shitty TV that Mickey found on the side of the road working with an old DVD player from the Gallaghers, so the two can watch something with shit that explodes.

Ian gets a call from Debbie. It’s a rushed conversation, but it ends with Ian saying he’ll meet them there.

“Monica’s in the hospital,” Ian says, grabbing his coat from where he threw it on Mickey’s bed, who barely has any time to run out of the apartment after Ian.

They sit in the hospital for hours, before the doctor comes out and pulls them all into a separate room. The second the doctor tells them Monica is dead, Mickey’s eyes are on Ian, and they don’t leave. He watches Ian’s face go blank, he watches Ian’s eyes as they grow watery, but no tears fall. 

The doctor asks if anyone wants to go see the body, and Debbie and Ian are the first to say they want to. Fiona insists she comes with Debbie (because, christ, Debbie is sixteen she shouldn’t have to be in a room with her mother’s dead body by herself.) Mickey follows with them, eyes on Ian (because he can’t fucking leave Ian right now. _)_

Debbie says her goodbye to her mother in less than five minutes, Fiona, Ian, and Mickey standing against the wall of the room. Ian’s eyes are on Monica, Mickey’s eyes are on Ian. 

When Debbie says she’s ready to leave, Fiona goes to leave with her.

“Can I have a few minutes with her?” Ian says. It’s the first thing he’s said.

Fiona nods, “Yeah,” she says, “Come on, Debs.”

Mickey makes no intent to move.

“Alone,” Ian says, turning to look at Mickey.

Oh. Mickey swallows, but nods, following Fiona out of the room and going to stand next to Lip, waiting for Ian to come out. He ignores the confused glance Lip gives him and just shrugs. Neither of them said a word as they wait.

Ian’s in there for a long time, fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour. Every minute that passes has Mickey pacing faster, panic settling in, and he doesn’t even know why. It’s not like Ian can leave with Monica, she’s fucking _dead._ But Mickey’s always had an overactive imagination, and he’s picturing Ian taking Monica’s body and running with it. Why? He has no fucking clue.

When Ian comes back his eyes are red and puffy, but his face reads emotionless. He walks straight past his family towards the exit, not making eye contact with Mickey as he goes.

“Ian?” Fiona calls after him.

Lip runs a hand over his face, throwing Mickey a panicked look, and makes a move to follow him.

“I got it,” Mickey assures them, leaving to follow Ian out of the hospital.

Mickey doesn’t walk with Ian, but he follows closely behind, giving him a bit of space. Not so much that Ian doesn’t now Mickey is there, but enough that Ian can walk comfortably in front of him at a decent pace. 

When they get home, Ian goes straight into the kitchen and stops. His back is to Mickey, who is panting slightly when he finally catches up. Ian was walking fast, and hey, Mickey’s got little legs in comparison.

“Ian,” Mickey says.

Ian’s shoulders tense and draw in, but he doesn’t respond.

“Ian,” Mickey says again, “Talk to me.”

Ian spins around, “I don’t wanna fucking talk,” he says, grabbing Mickey by the hips and shoving him against the kitchen counter, pulling Mickey into a kiss that’s rough, and hot, wet tongue and teeth nipping at Mickey’s bottom lip that he can’t help but fall into because it’s _Ian._

Mickey lets Ian kiss him, and lets Ian push Mickey’s jacket off his shoulders, and lets Ian grip at Mickey’s thighs and haul him up so he’s sitting on the counter, Mickey’s legs wrapped around Ian’s waist.

Mickey pulls away, “Ian, talk to me,” he pants.

Ian shakes his head, rolling his hips into Mickey’s and burying his face in the space between Mickey’s neck and shoulder, biting there.

Mickey gasps, his hand coming to grip at the back of Ian’s head, “T-talk to me.”

“I can’t,” Ian gasps, hands gripping tightly at the back of Mickey’s shirt, rucking it up slightly, “I fucking can’t, Mickey,” his voice sounds desperate, and not in the way Mickey likes it to be desperate, and his shoulders shake slightly, his face pressing deeper into Mickey’s neck so he knows he’s hiding tears.

“Just let me,” Ian whispers against Mickey’s skin, his hands slipping down Mickey’s back and into the back of his pants to grip at his ass, “ _Please_ , Mick, just let me...”

And, yeah, Mickey lets him.

* * *

The next day Ian tells Mickey that he’s fine, and he goes to work even though Mickey begs him not to. They eventually compromise when Ian says he’ll take the next few days leading up the funeral off. So Mickey lets him.

Mickey goes to work himself, running the bar awkwardly with Kev, neither of them mentioning Monica at all. And when Mickey finishes his shift, he meets Ian back at his, and he seems fine. Mickey lets out a sigh of relief. Maybe all Ian needed was that time with her in the hospital, maybe he said goodbye, maybe he put some of it to rest.

Ian is okay. He seems calm, and upset, yeah, but he functions just fine. Ian helps Fiona and Debbie with bullshit funeral plans, he stays relatively calm when his asshat of a grandpa shows up, and he sits stoically next to Mickey at the funeral, his hand holding Mickey’s the entire time.

After that, all the Gallagher siblings seem to go back to normal. Carl goes back to military school, Lip goes back to college, Fiona settles in with her businesses she’s starting up, and Debbie goes back to her high school courses she’s focusing on finishing - she’s planning on applying to community college soon, something about nursing.

Even Ian goes back into the swing of work easily, and Mickey thinks maybe it’s passed.

But he still tries. He still mentions Monica to Ian, to see a reaction, to see if Ian wants to talk about it. He gently asks Ian if he’s mentioned the whole thing to his therapist. But Ian blows him off every time, saying, “I’m fine, Mick, really,” and going to work.

* * *

Monica’s been dead a month when Mickey finally clues in. Ian’s sleeping less, he’s either getting up before Mickey, or way after Mickey, and he’s tired, like, all the fucking time, even though he seems to be working more hours.

It clicks the morning he wakes up to an Ian-less bed in the Gallagher house for the third day in a row. When he goes downstairs, Ian’s sweaty from a run, made and half-cleaned up breakfast, and is muttering to Mickey about how he really should get a better sleeping schedule.

Fuck.

Mickey eats breakfast with him, though. Because he doesn’t know what to do. They’ve never talked about this, what Mickey was supposed to do if Ian went off his meds, or if they crapped out on him. They never talked about what they were supposed to do the next time Ian was going manic.

He kisses Ian goodbye as he goes off to work, and he sneaks upstairs. To be fair, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know if Ian is manic, or maybe this is just how he’s coping right now. But there’s something gnawing at his stomach all morning, something that’s telling him, _don’t you dare fucking ignore this._

Mickey goes into their shared bedroom in the Gallagher’s house, and he opens up their side table where Ian keeps all his meds, and he dumps them out on the table. He does the quick math, and he starts to count.

* * *

Mickey throws the prescription bottle on the bed where Ian’s sitting.

“Wanna tell me why your medication for this month still has 48 pills in it?”

Ian picks up the bottle and holds it in his hands. He looks up at Mickey, “You counted my meds?”

“You should be going to get your refill soon, but there’s still more than half a month worth of meds in there,” Mickey places his hands on his hips.

“You _counted_ my fucking meds?!” 

“You haven’t been fucking taking them!” Mickey yells.

Ian stands up and crosses the room. For a second Mickey thinks he’s going to walk out, but instead he shuts the door and spins back on Mickey, “Would you keep your voice down?”

Mickey just laughs in disbelief, “Of course, I’m so fucking sorry, of course, you don’t want your family to know that you’ve been skipping out on your meds all month long, my bad.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ian says.

“No, I don’t,” Mickey spits, “Because you haven’t been telling me shit. You’re cutting me out, and you’re not taking your meds and I want to know why.”

“It’s none of your business,” Ian says, “My medication is none of your fucking business, you have no right to go and _count_ my pills like you’re my fucking doctor or my therapist or whatever.”

“None of my business? Ian, what the fuck are we doing here, then?”

“Well I thought we were in a loving committed relationship built on trust and mutual respect, but that can’t be true since you’re going through my shit.”

“Huh, yeah, that’s funny, because I thought part of our ‘loving committed relationship’ was that we were supposed to be honest with each other about how we’re feeling.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you how I’m fucking _feeling_.”

“Please, Ian, that would be _so fucking helpful!”_ Mickey screams in his face.

This. _This_ is why Mickey hates fighting with Ian. Because neither of them gives up when they fight, no one is willing to back down. It goes, and it goes, and it goes until they burn out, often quite literally. 

And that’s exactly how it goes. Ian screams and provokes Mickey, and Mickey will provoke right back until they’re both red in the face

“I’m feeling pretty fucking violated right now because my boyfriend who is supposed to love me, and trust me, instead go behind my back and counts my medication.”

“Well, _I’m_ feeling pretty fucking lost right now because you’ve clearly not been taking your meds. You’re heading off the deep end and what the fuck am I supposed to do about that? Your mom dies -”

“Don’t you dare bring her into this -” 

“- your _mother dies_ and you fucking shut down, you stop talking, and apparently you stop taking your meds. And I don’t know how to help you, because of all the things that we sit and we talk about, Monica has always been the number one thing you _refuse_ to talk about!”

“Because you wouldn’t understand!”

“You’re supposed to _help me_ understand!” Mickey cries, desperately.

“Fine,” Ian hisses, moving up into Mickey’s space, their faces close together, “Understand this. I don’t want to talk about Monica, I’m not going to talk about Monica, if I want to take a break on my meds, I’m fucking allowed to.

“The meds make you better, Ian,” Mickey is trying to reason, he honestly is.

“The meds _control_ me,” Ian says, he’s unrecognizable in this moment and it breaks Mickey’s heart, “Maybe I don’t want to be controlled anymore.”

Mickey doesn’t remember what he says after that, but it ends with him leaving. 

* * *

Mickey doesn’t see Ian for the rest of the day, or the day after. He works at the Alibi to pass the time, grumpier and arguing with anyone who crosses his path until Kev forces Mickey to leave.

(“Come on dude, I get that being angry is like your ‘thing’ or whatever but you’re bringing some really bad vibes into the bar right now and it isn’t cool!”)

Fucking whatever. Kev’s a douche anyway.

Mickey storms up to his apartment and spends the rest of the day throwing darts, smoking, drinking beer, and reading from the piles of books he keeps stacked in the corner.

He and Ian have fought before. How could they not? They both run hot - they’re extremely stubborn, they both hate admitting they’re wrong, and that leads to a lot of arguments. They’ve bickered about mundane shit like who is cleaning up the dishes, and what movie they’re going to rewatch for the millionth time, and who is hotter, Iron Man or Captain America? 

But this is the first time in the little more than a year and a half that they’ve been back together that they really _fought_. The kind of fighting that makes Mickey want to lie down on his bed and cry, the kind of fighting that makes him wonder if they can really fix it.

Because when Ian is manic Mickey doesn’t recognize him. He doesn’t know if Ian is totally manic right now, but he used to know Ian. And he loves him, fuck does he still love him more than anything, probably more than himself. But he doesn’t know Ian when he’s not on his meds, or when he gets deep into one of his mood swings.

Mickey can’t fucking reach him and it scares the crap out of him.

So he really wasn’t expecting Ian to walk right into Mickey’s apartment without knocking (he really should have locked the fucking door). Mickey’s about ready to throw an insult his way when Ian gently hands Mickey his bottle of pills.

“There’s 47 in there now,” he says, “Later tonight there’ll be 46.”

Mickey swallows and puts the bottle on his bedside table. Ian’s hands are shoved deep in his pockets, bashful, Mickey knows from his body language that he’s nervous.

“I’m sorry,” Ian chokes out.

Mickey just nods, unable to directly meet Ian’s eye.

Ian sits down on the edge of the bed, his back to Mickey. Maybe he can’t look Mickey in the eye, either.

“My mom’s dead,” he says.

“I know,” Mickey says back, scooting himself down to sit beside Ian on the bed. He doesn’t move to touch him, though.

“My mom is _dead_ ,” Ian whispers. Something cracks there, Mickey can see it, he’s almost prepared for it, and he moves immediately into Ian’s space, wrapping his arms around Ian’s body, half holding him, half cradling him as Ian crumbles into his arms.

* * *

They’re lying on Mickey’s bed together, on their sides facing one another. Ian’s calmed down, his gaze is focused on his own hand, palm flat against Mickey’s chest. Mickey’s looking right at Ian, studying his face. They haven’t really said much more to each other, both unable to know where to start.

“When you left, I still talked to you,” Ian whispers.

It takes Mickey a second to realize Ian must be talking about after he was down and out when Mickey left town. 

“It was like - a hallucination. I fucking hallucinated that you were there, and you were talking to me while I was depressed. When I say you’re the reason I went on my medication again, I literally mean _you’re_ the fucking reason. I talked to you about it.”

Mickey feels like he could throw up with that knowledge. He isn’t sure if he likes that _he_ is what Ian hallucinates, but he figures it’s better than demons, or something.

“Ian...”

“I know it wasn’t you. Even then I knew it wasn’t _you_. But it helped,” Ian says, “I would be lying if I said it didn’t help me. So I thought, maybe if I limited just a bit, I could talk to her.” _Her._ Monica.

“Christ,” Mickey mumbles.

“You wouldn’t fucking get it,” Ian says, soft anger lacing his voice. 

“I don’t get the having a dead mom?” Mickey says. Ian softens at that.

Mickey never talked about his mom. For multiple reasons, mostly because he doesn’t remember much about her. He was eight when she died, Mandy was five. She was an addict and an alcoholic. (Who wouldn’t be, being married to Terry?) But she also would tell Mickey stories as he fell asleep, stroke his hair, and was the only person allowed to call him _Mikhailo._

“You could have talked to me about this,” Mickey says, not mean, or cruel, just a fact, “My mom was fucked up, too, and she died,” he pauses, drawing in a breath, “And I loved her.”

Ian immediately drops his gaze.

“You are...” Mickey struggles to find the words, “I think we are allowed to love them. And hate them.”

“At the same time?” 

Mickey nods, “I think so.”

“I hate her,” Ian says, “I hate that she died, I hate that she didn’t tell us she was dying when she came, I hate that she never got medicated, I hate that she always left us and I hate - I _hate_ that I love her.” 

Ian tears up again, and Mickey can’t bear to see it, so he just pulls Ian closer into his chest so that Ian’s head is pressed into him. Mickey kisses the top of Ian’s head, holding him close, murmuring soft things into his ear.

“She was the first person who made me feel normal after the diagnosis,” Ian mumbles into Mickey’s chest, “Isn’t that fucked up?”

Mickey pushes a hand through Ian’s hair, “I don’t make you feel normal?” he asks, finding it hard to control the hurt in his voice.

“You do,” Ian assures him, pulling back slightly, his own hand coming to brush over Mickey’s cheek, “Of course you do. But you can’t just - you can’t come at me like that about my meds.”

“How am I supposed to bring that up, Ian?” Mickey asks (again) desperately.

“I don’t know!” Ian says, honestly, “I’m sorry, I don’t know, but _not_ like that. Not by counting my meds and attacking me like that. It makes me -” 

“A defensive douchebag?”

“Basically, yeah,” Ian huffs out, “I’ll - I’m taking them. Just - just watch me for a few days, okay? I’ve cleared my head a bit but-” 

“Yeah,” Mickey nods, “Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian whispers, the hand on Mickey’s face scratching behind Mickey’s ear, “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I’m always apologizing to you,” Ian says, “I wish I could just - do right by you for fucking once.”

“You are,” Mickey insists, “Fuck, Ian, of course you are.”

“I’m really not,” Ian says, “I’m always fucking up.”

“Ian I love you,” Mickey says, his hand coming to trail down Ian’s side, “You know that right?”

“Yes,” Ian insists, “I love you, too.”

Mickey pulls Ian closer by his hip, tangling their legs together on the bed, “Have you, uh...” he swallows, “Have you seen Anne recently?”

Ian shakes his head, “Not since Monica.”

“Maybe you should?”

Ian rolls over onto his back, his hand coming to rub at his face, “Yeah, I know. I will.”

“And you can ... fuck, Ian, you can talk to me, about anything,” Mickey says, his now free hand coming to rub at Ian’s chest, “Even if you don’t think I’ll understand. Especially then.”

Ian turns his head to look at Mickey again. His eyes wet, “Do you think you would come with me?”

“To see your therapist?”

“Maybe it would help. Maybe - maybe she could help us figure out what to do next time something like this happens.”

Mickey swallows heavily. It’s not the first time Ian’s mentioned Mickey and therapy in the same breath. But it’s the first time Ian’s mentioned Mickey and _his_ therapist. Mickey doesn’t have a problem with therapy, honestly, he doesn’t. He sees what it does for Ian, how it can help. But understanding it works and agreeing to do it himself are two entirely different things.

“It’s just a thought,” Ian says.

“I’ll think ‘bout it, okay?” Mickey pulls at Ian’s hip, so Mickey’s whole body is pressed up against Ian’s side, he buries his face against Ian’s neck, breathing in his smell.

“Okay,” Ian mumbles.

Mickey hums against Ian’s skin, his eyes drooping shut. He feels warm and tired, and a nap pressed up on Ian doesn’t sound too bad right now.

“Are you falling asleep?” Ian asks, a small laugh forming.

“No,” Mickey grumbles, “Shut up.”

Ian chuckles again, his arm snaking under Mickey’s body, and pulling him even closer, his mouth pressing against Mickey’s forehead.

“I love you,” Ian whispers again.

Mickey smiles, mumbles a “you too” into Ian’s skin. He feels warm and safe when he’s completely wrapped around Ian, especially at night. So he didn’t get a good night's sleep yesterday for a multitude of Ian related reasons.

He knows when they wake up they’ll have more to talk about, and Mickey will have to give Ian an answer about the whole therapy thing. He knows that at the base of it all, they’re just two broken boys with their dead moms and probably a whole lot of daddy issues (ew).

But here in Ian’s arms, Mickey feels okay.


End file.
